


In Dulci Jubilo

by alcyone (Alcyone301)



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Advent Calendar, Community: perfect_duet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone301/pseuds/alcyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve, London, post canon<br/>A ball is held in Chalcot Square; Stephen has an unusual conversation</p><p>Spoiler alert: HD onwards</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dulci Jubilo

Jack knocked perfunctorily on Stephen’s dressing-room door and entered directly, unsurprised to find him reading in breeches and stockings, shaved indeed – he was more civilised than he had been twenty years ago – but not dressed. Jack, himself resplendent in full-dress uniform, ribbons and medals, hurried his friend into his shirt, was complicit in allowing the ancient embroidered waistcoat (Sophie’s decree regarding the fashionable black tail coat had been reluctantly accepted, but he had baulked at replacing the waistcoat, scarcely visible as it was, and comfortable withal), briskly wrapped and tied the neckcloth, stuffed him into the coat, and urged him out the door, still hopping to put the second silver-buckled shoe on, with all the dispatch and something of the levity of a bosun’s mate rousing the watch below on a cold night.

The Aubrey family and their retainers had awakened the long-silent Half Moon Street house with life and light, noise, warmth and music. The joy, the extreme excitement of the twins pleased Stephen and justified the difficult decision to open Diana’s house, filled as it was with bittersweet memories. Newly out, Fanny and Charlotte had contrived to bring the entire clan – excepting their brother George, recently promoted master’s mate and currently in the West Indies - to London, and the prospect of a Christmas Eve ball at the big house in Chalcot Square was thrilling beyond anything they had known in their young provincial lives.

Sophie appeared, dressed in a pale gold gown with a deep embroidered hem; she was fairly glowing with excitement, proudly shepherding her two daughters, beautiful and suddenly startlingly adult; she spared the men a quick assessing glance and a smile of approval. Jack took her arm, as heartily pleased as she, tangible bonhomie sparkling from his brilliant blue eyes.

Brigid was nowhere to be seen as they descended the stairs and left by the front door – sulking in her rooms, probably, at being left with the governess and the quiet house. Stephen allowed himself to be hurried into the waiting coach, reluctant indeed, but determined to bring no shadow upon the party this evening. At no time was he a great friend of large gatherings of noisy people, and tonight he felt the need for quiet reflection; he was tolerably good at dissembling, however, and not without resources: he began an internal recitation of _Purgatorio_ – apt for the occasion, and a hopeful antidote to the social rigours to come.

The family settled themselves in the coach, Fanny and Charlotte anxiously straightening their gowns, checking their gloves, fans, and all their pretty paraphernalia, as the groom Willet pulled up the steps, secured the door, and climbed up behind. The coachman chucked the reins and the horses trotted on, skirting the Green Park before striking north for Primrose Hill.

***

There was a great crush before the brilliantly-lighted house, and they left the carriage with relief at last, sending it back to Half Moon Street with orders to return at two bells in the middle watch, to stand off and on until hailed.

A broad stairway led up to the front door; within, the supper rooms were to one side, and a pair of staircases ascended further to the long, capacious ballroom, bright with chandeliers and girandoles, the floor chalked in a cheerful pattern of green and red. Within the ballroom, a raised platform on the right accommodated a piano, with four chairs alongside; the players - cornet, cello, and two violins, as well as the pianist – were arranging their music, preparing for the minuet that would open the ball. On the left were the refreshment room, card room and a large ladies’ withdrawing room behind double doors.

Sophie and the girls made for this directly, to discard their cloaks and do some further mutual grooming. Jack plunged into the growing crowd, his pleased and booming voice calling greetings to friends on all sides; Stephen, resolutely following Virgil and Dante to the base of the mountain of Purgatory, stationed himself next to a marble sculpture on a low pedestal, apparently meant to represent Terpsichore (she was holding someone’s idea of a lyre). On a level deeper even than Dante’s verse, he contemplated the social behavior of apes he had observed in far-flung parts of the globe; his face relaxed into an affectionate and amused half-smile as Sophie and the twins, freshly tweaked into perfection, returned to the ballroom.

The early part of the evening was tolerable. Jack and Sophie danced once or twice, a striking couple in blue and gold: Jack, powerful and imposing, agile for such a big man, his beaming face nearly as red as his sash; Sophie, tall and slender, graceful, still very beautiful, sweetly smiling up at Jack and full of delight. Fanny and Charlotte were not always visible, surrounded between dances by friends and new acquaintances, but both stood up to dance every set, as merry as might be. It was mildly amusing to watch Sophie managing Jack between dances; twice Stephen saw her intercept him when he would have gone to the gaming-room, both times carrying him off to talk with friends, deft from a lifetime’s habit of gently leading him away from the pitfalls of life ashore.

Having left the prideful penitents behind on the first terrace of Purgatory, Stephen threaded his way through the still-growing crowd to the refreshment room. There was nothing out on the tables so early in the evening but plates of small sweet cakes and bowls of fruit, alongside the punch-bowls and decanters. The apples were small, slightly wrinkled, but still quite firm for this late in the year, the deep red strongly appealing; having missed much of dinner remonstrating with Brigid about the impossibility of bringing a twelve-year-old to a ball, Christmas Eve or no, he ate two where he stood, then put a few more in his pockets, not without a twinge of conscience; Sophie had urged him most especially to put nothing in his pockets, and he was aware of being delinquent in this respect already.

He found Jack busy about the plates of sweet cakes. “Why, Stephen, there you are.”

“So I am, too.”

“A capital evening, is it not, Stephen? Fine band, prodigious fine company. I should prefer to sail not quite so close-hauled, of course - between Sophie trying to keep me away from the card tables and you from the dining-tables - “

“Jack, you mistake; I have come here in honest hopes of something to eat.”

“Oh, then - these little cakes are all right – blow out your kite with them, though, and no fear for your supper, no substance to speak of.” Between mouthfuls, Jack continued, “How are you holding up, old Stephen? Will you not dance?”

“I must in time, Jack: Sophie has decreed it. She caught me in a moment of abstraction and I had promised before I was aware.”

Jack smiled at this; he was rather more proud than otherwise of Sophie’s ability to manage his friend. “Well, then, that’s fine, and it will set you up, I am sure. Pray, Stephen, do not be low. Brigid will be asleep by now and will have forgotten her disappointment by morning.”

“I know you are right, and sure she will take no lasting harm from it, but I heartily detest being made to feel like an illiberal domineering tyrant with the child, so I do.”

“I almost wish I could have left the twins at home, you know; but I find I can no longer play the part of God Almighty with them, if ever I could.”

“Leave them at home? What is amiss, my dear? Sure they are having the time of their lives, breaking hearts left and right.”

“Oh, it’s just that blasted Nilsson fellow – he is here, and being quite particular in his attention to Fanny, capering about with her like a bloody monkey. His manners ain’t quite the thing - I can’t abide his smug airs - and he’s foreign, you know; it won’t do.”

Stephen had heard something of this Sture Nilsson from Sophie, who had received him at Woolcombe not long ago. Recently arrived from Sweden, something to do with the embassy, she thought; he was a cousin of Lovisa Långstrump, who had married their dear old friend Gedymin Jagiello. Sophie had described him as quite presentable looking, well-dressed, in his early thirties, speaking fluent English with hardly any accent, seemed to quite enjoy his visit; Sophie was far more tolerant than Jack, and faint praise from her was damning indeed.

“Jack, every father of a daughter will be tormented by fears for his child, but not every man is a wolf, and sure no harm can come to your girl here. You are not to forget that the twins are here to be admired, to flirt and to dance, nothing more; be at ease, brother.”

“You are right, of course, Stephen, but I should hate to have to call such a scrub son; George is twice the man he is at half his age.” He refilled his glass and downed it in one, erasing the scowl that had formed on his all too open face.

Sophie put her head in the door, and spotting them came over to claim Stephen for the promised dance. “Oh for shame, Stephen, to spoil the lines so, ” she cried, “you could look quite elegant in that coat.” She confiscated his apples with a frown and gave them into Jack’s keeping; also a lancet, two stained handkerchiefs with something soft inside, one of them damp; a collection of loose coins, many of them British; a small notebook with a pencil attached by a ribbon; two curious stones; a paper cylinder of pistol balls; a leather case containing cigars; and a small packet of powder; she left him one handkerchief, the cleanest one, and his Breguet.

They did one turn - it was the rather old-fashioned Commodore’s Return. She was light on her feet, nimble and responsive; her air of triumph owed much to the twins’ success, but also not a little to Stephen’s presence on the dance floor; there was something proprietary in the way she took his hand, which would have irked him in any creature less dear than Sophie. As they stood poised at the bottom of the line, waiting their turn to start the next figure, Stephen asked her to point out Nilsson; indicating an elegantly turned out dark-haired man of middle height, she said “Jack does not like him, you know.”

“So I understand; what do you think of him, tell?”

She bit her lip and did not answer at first, a reply in itself; in time, she admitted that Nilsson’s manner might be somewhat bold, but not really insolent; perhaps a little bit familiar with the girls, but no doubt just meaning to be friendly; somewhat imperious to staff: “But perhaps it’s just that we are not used to his ways. Fanny seems to think him masterly.”

***

Retrieving his belongings - Jack returning them with a furtive air and a half-guilty glance at Sophie, happy to see her preoccupied with the girls; how this fearless warrior deferred to his gentle wife! - Stephen left the ballroom; the noise was excessive and wearing, the crowd becoming too dense for comfort. Down the long staircase and out by the front door, pausing to light a cigar at one of the lamps at the bottom of the steps; he walked around towards the mews, enjoying the fresh, cold air, the roar of the revelers diminishing behind him. The mews was busy with grooms settling their charges; a few carriages were present, evidently destined to wait there the entire evening.

On the right hand, nearest the stone gateway, there was a fashionably-appointed barouche with a pair of beautiful dark bays still between the shafts. Here he paused; it was a somewhat sober Jack who found him there, some little time later, murmuring to the near side mare, stroking her pretty well-bred face as she and the tall young gelding on the off side munched the wizened apples he had had in his pockets.

“Why, there you are, Stephen; I thought I should find you among the beasts. That’s Nilsson’s rig; are you reconnoitering? Seeking the bubble’s reputation in the horse’s mouth?”

Smiling affectionately, Stephen replied, “I find it a good policy to never look gift cannon in the mouth.”

“You’re wrong there, Stephen; you must always check the cannon's mouth, to be sure it is clear of debris. It ain’t safe otherwise.”

“No doubt you have the right of it, my dear.”

He broke off at the sound of approaching steps: the coachman, merrily whistling a familiar tune, laden with nosebags, the groom behind him with rugs, which he dropped against the wall and subsided upon. Jack, looking surprised, took Stephen by the arm and led him away.

Pulling him into the lee of the front stairs, Jack exclaimed, “I didn’t want to continue in front of his people, but my word, whatever you may think of the man, he employs a superior kind of coachman. He was whistling Bach.”

“What Bach? Sure it was a Christmas song.”

“Old Johann, London Bach’s father, you know, who wrote those splendid partitas I like so much, and your cello suites. That’s a little chorale that I heard in Pompey a few years back,” said Jack, singing a line or two; the words were approximate but recognisable, and the melody unmistakable. “Joy, that is a very old, a mediaeval song, _In Dulci Jubilo_ , with a macaronic text in German and Latin. It is said to have been first written down by the mystic Suso, who tells us that he was led to a troupe of angels dancing and singing it, strangely unconcerned by his presence; in fact he claims he was invited to join in, the creature. There are a great many versions, and like all these Lutheran melodies we hear so often, it has been used by many composers - but you do not attend, brother; what troubles you?”

“Stephen, that reptile is dancing with Fanny again - this is the second time already. He is being far too particular, making her conspicuous, and I don’t like the way he is looking at her, nor she him. Pray give me the benefit of your wisdom, brother, before I do something rash and knock the fellow down.”

“Jack, Jack, do nothing of the sort, I beg. Do not interfere in any way; you can do no possible good. Fanny is a spirited child at an age naturally characterised by rebellion, and savouring her considerable newly-apprehended powers; you will only confirm her in a potentially disastrous course. Pray leave the problem with me for now, and try to enjoy the ball - dance, play cards - with Sophie, mind, brother. I will endeavour to find out more, for though his manner may be outlandish, his behaviour ill-considered at best, he may well be perfectly sincere and respectable.”

***

Returning to the ballroom, Jack waded into the throng, head and shoulders taller than most, resuming his round of greeting his many friends. Stephen kept company with Terpsichore again and observed Fanny and her beau for a time; he was troubled also. The man was doing nothing outrageous, but his unwavering attention was fixed upon Fanny, and her colour, already high, intensified steadily; her eyes were huge. “She looks like nothing so much as a doe, transfixed in a rifle’s sights,” Stephen reflected, ruefully. “The simile is apt; poor Jack.”

Some little time later, he followed the quarterdeck boom of Jack’s voice to the card room, where he and Sophie were playing Pope Joan with Admiral and Mrs Wentworth. He watched them playing for a while, until abandoning the cards, they rose from the table; Sophie went to collect the girls for supper; it was nearly eleven. Stephen followed in their wake, realizing with some amusement that in his inward recitation Dante and Virgil were just leaving Statius; next came the sixth terrace of Purgatory, wherein dwelt the gluttonous.

Downstairs in the supper rooms, the heat and noise was stunning, not unlike the cockpit in a man of war during a battle; but the grimaces were largely of mirth and courtesy, the calls for wine, not aid, the urgency hunger, and he very far from engaged. Having eaten his fill quickly, he attempted to attend to the music – the instruments, barring the piano, had been removed to a room across the hallway, but the band was not up to the challenge of so many excited guests, feeding and talking nineteen to the dozen. The Corelli, long a favourite adapted duet with them, sounded thinner and more wretched than ever it had coming from their own two instruments.

“Do they know no better than to play such a piece at such a time? It is never meant to be mere supper music,” he remarked to Jack, “and we can scarcely hear them in here, subtlety all lost; for shame.”

Jack, forgiving, replied, “They mean well by it, I am sure, and it is a capital band. It’s nearly Christmas, old Stephen. Live and let learn.”

Excusing himself, he went outside to enjoy another cigar and escape the pervasive noise. Somewhat abashed at Jack’s reproof, mild though it was, he abandoned Dante and Virgil and replaced the noble verses with a beloved ancient _villancico_ honouring the Blessed Virgin, far more suitable for this night.

The mews were nearly deserted, the grooms and coachmen retired to the warm kitchens of the house; a few carriages loomed in the dark forecourt, horses dozing between the shafts, rugged up, hip-shotten, heads low.

As he paced slowly up and down near the gates, inwardly singing _De los ángeles señora, vos queráis tal gracia dar_ , oblivious to the muted clamour of the ballroom and the distant bells, a rich contralto voice sounded from the shadows, close at hand: “Honoured sir, would you happen to have another apple?”

Startled, he cast about him; but the only creatures near were the horses, the gentle-faced one closest to him tossing her head, blowing her sweet breath out in rising clouds of fog.

“Why, honey, how good of you to speak to me.”

“Oh, it is our pleasure, isn’t it, Oliver?” Much shyer, the young gelding nodded. “I tried to talk to you before, to thank you for your kindness, but of course few can hear us, even at this time in the year.”

Casting aside his cigar and pulling more apples from his pockets, Stephen offered them with both hands; the gelding thanked him in a subdued voice, for all the world like a bashful child speaking in public; he seemed surprised and pleased to find himself understood.

As they crunched the apples in their powerful teeth, Stephen was lost in wonder for a while; then, rallying, “I am sorry to see you left here in the cold for so long. Your master must be unheeding at best.”

“Oh, with respect, no, sir; he is the kindest of masters. He and his wife are both very considerate. She used to bring us carrots nearly every day, and tonight I heard him give particular orders that we should have these charming cloaks, since we must stand for some time.“

“Do you tell me so? And is Fru Nilsson here tonight?”

“No, he wouldn’t hear of her coming out in this weather and in her condition. He is very careful of her – will scarcely let her leave the house, now it’s winter.”

“Indeed? How very happy I am to hear it,” he replied, with perfect truth. He remained there for a few minutes longer, stroking the star on the mare’s forehead. Turning to go at last, the beautiful voice behind him: “Thank you, sir, for the apples and for your kind concern.”

“And a very happy Christmas to you, my dears.”

***

Stephen paused in the alcove under the stairs, his heart still beating fast. Tearing a page from his notebook, he scribbled a note, folded and addressed it. Climbing the stairs to the ballroom, he beckoned a young footman, gave him a coin, and bade him deliver the note to the gentleman when he was with the young lady in peach silk. “Say to him, ‘Your wife particularly wishes you to read this note at once; she requires your presence urgently.’; say it just like that, mind.” The footman, believing he understood a rival’s ruse, came very close to winking at him.

Lingering near the doorway, he watched: Nilsson was fetching a glass of punch for Fanny, who was seated in a little alcove to one side, with the light falling upon her hair, a crescent of gold limned against the dark green curtain, breathtakingly beautiful; Charlotte was walking arm in arm with young Captain Donellan, and laughing prettily; Sophie and Jack were in a far alcove, speaking with every appearance of calm; but to his knowing eye, Jack was looking dangerously impatient, stern and enormous, as before a battle; and Sophie, her hand on his arm, was steadily urging restraint. Stephen allowed himself a moment of appreciation for the family that was all but his own, earnestly hoping Sophie would prevail for just a little while longer.

But Nilsson was with Fanny now, and the footman was delivering the note; Stephen was well-placed to observe the startled resentment, quickly suppressed, and Fanny’s shock and confusion. He watched Nilsson’s face change as he read the note:

_Sir_  
 _I do myself the honour of addressing you in this fashion; circumstances require me to do so. Your behaviour this evening has caused remark among the friends of the young lady who has honoured you with her company. She has now heard of your wife and your need to be away at once; no purpose can be served by your remaining; be so good as to leave directly._  
 _Your servant_  
 _S. Maturin_

Nilsson looked up in consternation and dawning fury and encountered his own icy glare, his minute nod, unmistakably threatening; after a moment’s hesitation, he folded the letter into his pocket, bowed over the hand of the bewildered Fanny, and abruptly took his leave. Sending the greatly entertained footman to call for his carriage, he stalked off grim-faced, very red, to the stairway and down. Before following, Stephen glanced back at the alcove and met Fanny’s eye; she had seen him, alas; it could not be helped.

He watched from the front door of the house as Nilsson climbed into his carriage and they drove off; with a sigh for the horses, for his unhappy daughter at home, for Fanny perhaps angry at him, he descended. He walked slowly around to the mews, now nearly empty, and lingered there, considering; presently his own coach pulled in through the archway. It stopped - the door opened and Brigid jumped out, dressed in her best ivory frock, wrapped in the midnight blue and silver scarf he had not seen for years; for a breathless moment his memory painted Diana there, and his heart turned over within his breast.

She saw him at once and came straight to him, very pale but defiant. Before he could speak, she took his hand and looked up into his face. "Papa, are you very angry?"

“Dearest soul, I am very happy to see you; sure I could never tell your mother what to do, either, my dear.”

He had a quick word with the groom, then: “Now what if Mrs Nasmyth should look in on you and find you gone? Will she not be aghast, destroyed?”

“Oh, Papa, I left a note on my pillow. But she never wakes after ten o’clock.”

Wondering how she would know such a thing, he led her out of the mews. After a few more steps Brigid halted; stretching up to his ear, she whispered, "Papa, I heard the horses talking! Just for a little bit, before Mr. Oldham and Harry came for the coach and I had to hide.“

“Did you indeed? That is a very great privilege, my dear.”

“It was lovely! And oh, it made me so happy.” Looking down, she continued, “I used to understand them, and the old dog, and the birds and cats and rabbits too, a long time ago; I thought I would never hear them again.”

Stephen, entranced, gently replied, “Not everybody can hear them at all, and it is believed that they can speak only at Christmas, a great concession made to them in recognition of their reverent presence at the birth we celebrate tonight; but there is an older, far older belief, acushla, that has the _sídhe_ conversing with the animals at all seasons.”

Going up the stairs, in the sudden lightness of his heart, Stephen whistled a lively phrase that reduced Brigid to giggles at once. It was a piece of a Mexican _jácara_ she had learned at her great aunt Petronilla’s convent in Spain; she had attempted to teach it to the twins, to the governess, to him, to anyone – with its complex tempi and difficult melody it could not be sung by one alone - he was able to do the instrumental accompaniment well enough, but always got muddled trying to sing it, which she thought hilarious.

Jack, cooling his heels near the withdrawing-room door with ill-concealed anxiety, saw them enter the ballroom; surprised, his face brightened, reflecting their own mirth. Presently Sophie came out and spoke to Jack; Stephen saw his evident relief with satisfaction.

Drawing Stephen aside as Brigid was sent into the withdrawing room, Jack said into his ear, “He is gone, quite disappeared, and Sophie says Fanny is very angry, and full of scorn. We are assured he offered her no insult, however, and I for one am pleased that she shows such spirit. I am amazed, brother, amazed; but I tell you what, Stephen, I thank God my chick is under your wing also, for I am quite sure you have somehow brought this about.”

Jack gripped his shoulder briefly, meeting the pale, pale eyes, never cold to him; presently Sophie reappeared, and in high spirits he led her onto the dance floor for The Sailor’s Reprieve.

The twins emerged from the retiring room shortly thereafter, with Brigid in tow. Stephen was relieved to see that there was more of indignation and perhaps embarrassment in Fanny’s face than sorrow; she had taken no serious wound, then. She caught his eye for a moment and blushed, but smiled at him; courage indeed.

Brigid had undergone the grooming ritual, ribbons in her artfully arranged fair hair, the scarf adorning her frock, making it seem more like a ball gown. The woman to come was faintly visible, as was the ethereally beautiful fairy-child she had been; both were subsumed in the happy girl who came to stand at his shoulder. Taking her hand, he led her to the refreshment room, nearly deserted at this hour, with many of the guests departing; they watched together, content, from the doorway.

After a time, Sir Roger de Coverley was called, the last dance. As the dance floor filled with most of the remaining guests, Brigid asked, “Papa, may I dance? I know them all – Fanny and Char have been practicing for weeks.” Stephen replied, “My dear, no; you should be at home, as well you know, and surely Sophie would not approve. Be content with watching, joy.”

He had scarcely spoken, however, when Jack and Sophie approached, Jack gleeful. He made a courtly leg to Brigid and requested the honour of this dance; perfectly self-possessed, she curtseyed and took his hand, spoiling the effect somewhat by grinning over her shoulder at her nonplussed father, who was taken captive by Sophie and propelled onto the dance floor, speechless.

***

The ball was over; the hosts stood near the piano as their own children entered in the company of a soberly-clad lady with a pitch-pipe, the boy a little younger than Brigid, the daughter perhaps three years older; they were to perform for the remaining guests, intimates of the house. The Aubreys and Maturins gathered together to listen, Jack with his arm about Sophie’s waist, Stephen by his side, and the three girls standing demurely in front of them.

The children sang but two pieces – the girl’s voice a pleasant alto, the boy’s a piping treble, very pure and clear. At the second verse of “He shall feed his flock”, the soaring treble filled Stephen with a piercing sense of joy, as poignant as grief; the scene blurred for a while, but he weathered it, a benign storm. The lovely “There is No Rose” followed, and then the host was calling for everyone to join in. They sang “Adeste Fideles”, none too well, and then, more creditably, “While Shepherds Watched”; and then there was laughter, hearty greetings and farewells, and with great good will the guests dispersed.

Sophie gathered her flock, detached Jack from Admiral Wentworth, with whom he was renewing actions they had seen together in years past, and wishing their hosts a happy Christmas, they took their leave.

They piled into the coach, Sophie with the twins on either side, Jack and Stephen with Brigid between them. Nobody had much to say, and a comfortable silence fell, punctuated by yawns; the coach lurched into motion. After a while, Jack began to hum _In Dulci Jubilo_ , a deep thrumming; Stephen joined in, singing very low in his unlovely voice, verse after verse; across from him, Charlotte joined in at the refrain: _Eia, wären wir da._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the much-regretted Patrick O’Brian and his heirs, and are borrowed with profound respect and love.  
> Beta: the awesome alltoseek
> 
> A/N: This is mostly about children, one way or another, as is appropriate for Christmas. Accordingly there are hints of two classic children’s books hidden in the fic. Oliver is the young Sir Oliver, a wise old brown hunter in _Black Beauty_ ; it could be a guest appearance, not just a reference, as the time works out perfectly: if he’s four years old here he would be about thirty at the time of his appearance in the book; his tail is docked, which would be unlikely if he had never been a carriage horse.  
> Jagiello’s fiancée Lovisa is canonical, Långstrump (= Longstocking) is not; Mr. Nilsson is Pippi’s monkey, of course. I wanted to give Mr. Nilsson an appropriate first name: Sture = Awkward.  
> A/N 2: Animals talking at Christmas, especially Christmas Eve midnight, is a relatively young legend, primarily Scandinavian and German, and regularly mixed up with much older legends about talking animals, often sinister ones. I like the simpler version, which enchanted my childish mind; I still half hope to hear them speak at Yuletide. The other thread here is people (or, more frequently, _sídhe_ , fairies and their ilk), who understand the natural speech of animals; since Brigid is canonically characterised as _leanbh sídhe_ and fond of animals, it seemed fitting to reference it.  
>  A/N 3: Harry Willet is the groom who survived Diana’s crash, and I don’t really think it’s probable he’d still be there, nor still a groom, but perhaps he was very loyal, or maybe injured and so retained out of compassion. Except for Petronilla, the rest of the proper names are non-canon, some having wandered in from their own worlds.  
> A/N 4: the music:  
> -I must leave aside all the dance music, which is far outside my knowledge; but the named dances are genuine; Sir Roger de Coverley was traditionally a Christmas dance, and often the last one.  
> -Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), chorale BWV 368, “In Dulci Jubilo” (“London Bach” is Johann Christian; Jack was not to know that there are at least eight other composers named Johann in that remarkable family.)  
> -Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713), Concerto Grosso in G minor, Op.6, No.8 "Fatto per la notte di Natale" aka Christmas Concerto  
> -Pedro de Escobar (c.1465–after 1535), _villancico_ , “Virgen Bendita” (Not a Christmas song, strictly speaking. _De los ángeles señora, vos queráis tal gracia dar_ : O Lady of the angels, we beg thee, give us grace. )  
> -Francisco de Vidales (c.1630-1702), _jácara_ , “Los que fueren de buen gusto”  
> -Georg Friderich Händel: “He shall feed his flock” from _Messiah_ (Not a Christmas song, except by association.)  
>  -Traditional, “There is no rose” (This is also a macaronic text, in English and Latin.)  
> -Traditional, “Adeste fideles”  
> -John Foster (1762-1822), “While shepherds watched” (The words are traditional and ubiquitous at this time; Foster’s version was very popular.)  
> -Traditional, “In Dulci Jubilo” ( _Eia, wären wir da_ : Oh, that we were there!)


End file.
